


She is Already out the Door

by DragonBandit



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Female Friendship, Gen, The very slightest of ship teases, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5842120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>solas: we must not corrupt the spirit with filthy human gender<br/>cole: *sees a cute girl* I’m becoming one of those<br/>solas: no stop–<br/>BUT IT IS TOO LATE SHE IS ALREADY OUT THE DOOR</p>
            </blockquote>





	She is Already out the Door

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Dragon Age Kink meme. Original post [Here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15866.html?thread=60969722#t60969722)
> 
> Also has hints of Varric/Cassandra, and Nonbinary!Solas. There is no misgendering or similar bad themes. Merely Cole being confused until she realises what she wants. 
> 
> That said if there's anything I should tag for please tell me.

The first time Cole sees the Inquisitions advisers they’re struck by how pretty they all are. Soft skin and painted lips, Kohl around their eyes. Their wide hips and narrow waists, and the pretty clothes all of them are wearing. Even Cassandra’s armour fits her snugly. In ways that Cole’s ragged strips of cloth do not.

There’s an ache in Cole’s chest as they look at the three women. All of them so different and yet the same in this fundamental thing. This thing that gives them fine bones, and delicate faces. soft lips and full breasts.

Cole looks at them, and _wants._

She. It’s a simple word. They say it with their teeth, a soft Shhh and then an exhalation of breath. She. Shhh-eee. She. Sheeeee. She. She.

Cole is not a she. Cole is a he, to the inquisition. It is only one letter of difference but it feels like so much more. It feels like an itch. A tugging where the missing letter should be, but no one else seems to notice but Cole. They don’t understand how, but they think it is like when they see the hurts that everyone else ignores, even when they are rending and ripping and breaking a person apart.

Cole wishes though, that someone would say the other letter. Just so they could try it on, for size.

“Solas,” Cole says one day, as the man works on a huge painting that screams of pain and hope in equal measure.

“Yes Cole?”

“How do you know that you are a man?”

Solas pauses in the middle of a brush stroke, “Do you mean how I personally know I am a man, or how people in general know they are men?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Well I personally do not regard myself as a man at all. But rather something outside of the lines of gender. Why are you asking?”

Cole frowns. They swing their hips from side to side, like Cassandra does when she is thinking, or annoyed, or trying not to laugh at Varric. “I don’t think I am a man.”

“And thus you wish to find out if this is a common confusion for people who were not born of the fade,” Solas says, “I am afraid I cannot help you there, but perhaps if you do not think that you are a man, you are like me? Neither male nor female? That was rather common for the spirits I encountered in my travels.”

“No, I’m not that.”

Solas turns. There is a streak of yellow paint across his nose. A frown below the bright patch of colour, “What is it that you feel like you are then?”

“I feel like a woman,” Cole says. Their voice pitching high at the end like it’s a question, even though it isn’t. Not really. Not anymore.

“…Ah.” Solas says. Cole ducks their head, staring at the mage from underneath the brim of their hat.

“Is that bad?”

“No, not bad,” Solas says. He smiles, but the edges of it don’t fit quite right. A little like when Cole gets called Boy. “Not bad at all Cole, just different.” He turns back to the wall of the rotunda with it’s half finished mural, “Surprising, yes. But not bad. Never bad.”

Cole smiles, and doesn’t pull out the loneliness that is soul deep within Solas. It is not something that can be fixed with words. Nor would Solas ever forgive himself if Cole changed inside to make him feel better. Even if it did help.

She, Cole says to themselves. I am a She.

* * *

Josephine is not shaped like Cole. Her hips are wider, and her shoulders are narrower. Though their waists are the same. She is smaller, slighter. None of her is covered in hard muscles, and her chest sticks out far more than Cole’s does.

But she has very, very pretty dresses.

It swishes around Cole’s calves, the silk fabric soft and supple and so different from her usual leather trousers. Blue and gold sleeves that are puff around her arms. Though they stop too high up her arms; Cole’s arms are longer than Josephine’s. The fabric drapes funny around Cole’s chest, but she cannot help that. Perhaps no one will notice all the ways that it doesn’t quite fit.

She hopes so. It’s a very pretty dress. The Cole in the mirror agrees that it’s a very pretty dress as well.

She twirls, a laugh escaping as the skirt flares out around her legs. She hadn’t known that skirts could do that! Her hat sits jauntily on top of her head. Cole feels something in her chest start to settle. The warm, fuzzy feeling of “Yes.”

The dress stays on for the rest of the day. No one needs Cole to do any messy chores that would ruin her new favourite piece of clothing. It is very important to be nice to clothes like this, Cole has already learned from Vivienne and Dorian’s own worries about their expensive outfits. Especially the ones that they wear when they help the Inquisitor.

Cole does not think she will wear her dress then. It would get in the way, and it doesn’t have enough pockets to hold all of her potions and poisons and poultices. It is an inside dress. Or a Skyhold dress. A pretty thing to relax in. Like it was for Josephine.

She is staring into space, listening to Skyhold when there are light footsteps racing up the stairs, and very abruptly there is an angry person in Cole’s space.

“You! You stole my dress! I was planning to wear that to the gala!” Josephine says, harsh and hurt and so very loud compared to the quiet of before. “What do you have to say for yourself young man?”

“I’m not a man,” Cole says. She drops her head, worrying at the white lace that covers the collar of the dress. “It’s a very nice dress.”

There’s a pause. One filled with lots of questions and hurt and confusion and something that Cole doesn’t understand at all. At the end of it, Josephine sits next to Cole on the boxes that make up her alcove.

“Why did you take my dress Cole?” Josephine asks, very softly. Like Cole is a small animal. The puppy papa brought home one day, with the floppy ear and who cried when Josephine pet it’s tiny head and snuck it some of her dinner even though papa told her not to.

“I wanted to be pretty.” Cole says. “Like you.”

“…I see,” Josephine lies, “And why did you want to be pretty?”

“Why does anyone want to be pretty?” Cole asks in answer, She looks at a face that is wrinkled in confusion. A tentative smile spread across it’s features. No longer mad except at the edges.

“Well,” Josephine smooths the wrinkles out of her skirt, “I like to feel pretty because when I am pretty then everything in the world is easier to deal with. Not to mention it has been a terribly important part of my life since I was old enough to know what seasonal fashions are.”

“Mama in a carefully made gown, matching at her side as we turn heads at the ball. What a pretty daughter you have Madame!”

“Yes, exactly!” Josephine laughs. “So why did you feel the need to steal one of my favourite dresses to feel pretty in?”

“I’m a girl. I wanted the outside to match the inside,” Cole says.

Josephine has nothing to say to that. Not even only on the inside of her head. Cole looks away, staring at her hands. Their pale fingers against the deep blue of the skirt. She waits for Josephine to stop staring at her.

“Then you should have a dress that fits you more flatteringly than that one,” Josephine says. “Would you like to come with me to get fitted for something that would suit you better?”

Cole blinks. “You would do that for me?”

“Of course. Every girl should have a dress to feel pretty in.” Josephine tilts forwards until she’s back in Cole’s vision. She’s smiling, front teeth clearly visible between painted lips. “And it has been a very long time since I have been able to gossip with someone other than Leliana.”

“I would like a dress,” Cole says carefully.  

“Then I would absolutely love to introduce you to a wonderful tailor. How do you feel about stripes?”

“Stripes?”

* * *

Weeks after that first day of wearing a dress, Cole is introduced to the concept of Ladies Night. Ladies night happens in Josephine’s study, the doors carefully locked and the fire roaring. Josephine sits on a plush chair, her back to her desk and smiles at Cole who is sitting on the floor.

Across from Cole, Leliana sits in another chair, bare feet stretched out to be held in Cole’s careful grasp. In Cole’s other hand is a brush, covered in a layer of red polish. She’s already done one of Leliana’s feet. A task that had taken a lot of do overs. Nail painting is a very complicated art. Even after Leliana had showed what to do with Cole’s own toenails–now a deep dark blue.

It matches her new dress, a simple thing of blue wool that flares out when Cole turns too quickly. It has delicate stripes in a lighter blue running across it, apparently the fashion at the moment and the way they’re arranged give Cole’s hips an appearance of being wider than they really are.

It’s also simple enough that when Cole helps people in it she doesn’t have to worry about damaging the delicate fabrics. Though it is still not the thing to wear outside with the Inquisitor. There it’s best that Cole continue to wear her old leathers. They don’t mind getting covered in dirt.

Her hat is new too. White with pale blue flowers sewn into the brim. It is definitely a hat for special occasions.

Leliana has a glass of wine in one hand. Apparently this is another requirement for ladies night. Cole had had a sip, and immediately turned up her nose at it. It may look nicer than the ale Dorian inhales, but it still burns her throat.

“You would not believe the day I have had,” Cassandra says with a snarl as she steps into the room. Her heavy boots clacking against the stone floor, “If I have to deal with that man for even a single second more I swear I will–Oh hello Cole.”

“Hello Cassandra,” Cole says, peering up at the stern woman. “Varric thinks you sound nicer when you have to scold him through the laughing.”

Josephine giggles. The air around her is hazy with the feeling of wine, “You really should just kiss him, Cassandra.”

“Or kill him,” Leliana suggests with an arch of her eyebrow.

“I do not want to kiss him,” Cassandra lies. She throws herself into the plush chair closest to the fire. “And I cannot kill him unless I wish to have my favourite series end on a cliffhanger. Cole what are you wearing?”

“Madame Marchand in cobalt and teal blue,” Leliana supplies, “It suits her quite well, no?”

Cassandra sniffs, “I would not ask for my opinion on clothes.” She leans to grab at the bottle of wine, pouring herself a generous glass. Wine is definitely a requirement for ladies night. “It does look better than the rags I usually see you wear.”

“Those are going to be burned,” Josephine says airily.

Cole squeaks at her, “But I like my clothes!”

“But they are so ugly! And you have such pretty eyes when proper attention is brought to them.”

“They’re mine.”

“They are falling apart.” Josephine counters, “Just last week I saw the shoulder threatening to come apart when you stretched.”

Cole frowns at her, about to counter again when she realises that Josephine is smiling. Oh. Oh!

“You’re teasing me!” She says. A grin spreading across her cheeks.

Josephine giggles back. “Of course I am.”

“I don’t think anyone's teased me before.”

“Then count yourself lucky,” Cassandra says, “you’ll find the novelty wears off very quickly.”

“You’re just mad because you want to slam Varric up against a wall,” Josephine sing songs.

“I do not!”

Cole looks between them, and at Leliana who is grinning like she’s sat at the best opera in the world. Cole ducks her head, and smiles shyly.

“Liar,” She says loud enough for them all to hear.

Cassandra groans.

* * *

Krem is minding his own business. He is. He’s in his usual corner of the tavern. Between jobs again since Skinner managed to break her arm and Stitches is sure that the lot of them will catch scurvy if they go out without stocking up on vegetables first.

This is why Krem’s usual bottle of wine is a bowl of stew. It tastes terrible, but apparently that’s how he knows it’s good for him.

There’s a flash of blue and white on the corner of Krem’s vision. Before he’s really aware of it Krem’s perched on the back of his chair to get a better look. For a moment Krem thinks that it’s one of the Orlesian delegates, though he immediately dismisses that thought: the dress isn’t nearly fancy enough and there’s no mask over her face.

A face that, now that Krem is squinting at it, looks really familiar. It takes him a moment to work out where he’s seen the angular features before, but then the memory comes to him.

The Storm Coast, during the crap mission with the dreadnaught. She’d been there, in the shadow’s next to the Inquisitor and Bull. Krem hadn’t thought much about her at the time. What with most of his energy going into not fucking dying.

She looks nicer here, in clothes that fit her instead of the weird coat she’d had over leather armour. And she’s got powder over her cheeks, softening features that she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to cover on the Storm Coast. Only idiot alti try and carry more makeup than a piece of Kohl on the road with them.

She’s a lot nicer actually. Krem tilts his head, figures why not and scrapes his spoon for the last dregs of stew. He takes a moment to straighten out his clothes, and wipe any stew remains off his face, before walking across the floor of the tavern.

By the time he’s slid next to her at the bar, where she’s… carefully setting out a line of birdseed, Krem’s got a winning smirk on.

“Hey,” He says, leaning in to her personal space. Just enough to get his message across loud and clear, “I’m Krem. Can I buy you a drink?”

 


End file.
